


not even with your hand

by Naraht



Series: trials of Coach Yakov [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abstinence, Break Up, Caught in the Act, First Kiss, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-20 16:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9500057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naraht/pseuds/Naraht
Summary: No sex while you're competing – this is Yakov's rule. His athletes often have other ideas.





	1. Victor

**Author's Note:**

> _"If you come in and even look like you had it – even if you haven't – she'll call you on it. She'll say, 'No sex, not even with your hand!' It's crazy! If one person in Russia lost a competition in 1902 because he had sex, it'll filter down to me. Because skating never changes."_ – Johnny Weir discussing his coach, Galina Zmievskaya ([source](http://quotablejohnnyweir.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/if-you-come-in-and-even-look-like-you.html))

**Theory**

"...not even with your hand!" said Yakov, the concluding words of the finely-honed peroration that he had been delivering to teenage skaters throughout the two decades of his coaching career.

Two doubtful blue eyes met his gaze. "You don't want me to sleep with anyone..." began Vitya.

"Absolutely not! Not at any time of year! You're only sixteen!"

Vitya nodded, an acknowledgment that the words had been spoken rather than anything so positive as agreement. He looked as if he was still trying to figure something out.

"But you don't want me to – to use my hand. Or – anything like that."

Yakov sighed. It was painful enough going through this once, was he really going to be forced to repeat himself? Or to ponder what Vitya might consider a suitable substitute for his hand? 

He should not have expected any more of Vitya. The boy had the memory and the attention span of a goldfish – unfortunately combined with an innate athletic talent that might yet put him among the greatest in the sport. If he listened to his coach, which he never did.

"Not during the competitive season," said Yakov wearily. "I told you, it uselessly expends energy that you could be saving for your skating. The experience of generations of Russian athletes has proven that this is true. If you intend to become a champion..."

Vitya tilted his head, long silver hair falling around his face, putting on an expression of puzzlement which Yakov suspected was entirely affected. His lips turned down in a sad little _moue_. "Then how do you expect me to get off?"

Yakov sputtered. "Were you dropped on your head as a child? I don't want you to get off! Not at all! Not once!"

"But..."

"Don't look at girls, don't look at boys, avoid exciting yourself unduly, take cold showers, do whatever you have to do. This is all I have to say on this matter. I will not repeat myself. But I will be watching you, Vitya. And, trust me, I will know."

***

**Practice**

_Four years later_

The Grand Prix podium ceremony was over, the interviews were finished. Yakov stood with the other coaches waiting for their athletes to emerge from the locker rooms. Eventually one of the competitors appeared, freshly showered. Then another, a third, and a fourth.

Only the gold and silver medallists remained unaccounted for. Victor Nikiforov and Christophe Giacometti.

A deep, uneasy suspicion began to stir within Yakov's soul. He glanced over at Josef, who seemed unmoved. Perhaps he had different standards for his athletes; if so, it explained a lot.

"I'll just go and check on them, shall I?" he said finally.

Josef grunted, unconcerned. Yakov went.

For a moment he paused at the door of the locker room, wondering whether he was being unduly paranoid. Then he heard, inside, a man's urgent, husky voice: " _Oui plus vite_!"

It was not Victor.

_"Tu es si beau, Christophe."_

That was Victor. Damn.

Yakov burst through the door, only to be greeted by the unwelcome sight of Christophe Giacometti's ass. He and Victor stood pressed together, kissing, both very much naked, their right hands busy in the space between their bodies.

 _"Victor!"_ gasped Chris. _"Je vais jouir! Je..."_

And it was all over. For Chris, anyway. He slumped bonelessly against Victor, who wrapped his arms around Chris. His own shoulders held the tension of a climax not yet achieved.

"Victor!" bellowed Yakov. "What the hell are you doing?"

The two young men began to step apart from one another, clearly thought better of it, and settled for staring at Yakov in disbelief.

"Fuck," said Christophe in English, still breathless. "Are you not meant to be having sex with me?"

Victor's face was flushed, his newly short hair falling across his eyes. "I'm not supposed to be having sex at all," he said slowly, looking at Yakov.

"But the competition is over," protested Chris. "You won!"

Yakov was not going to leave Victor to explain. "What are you _thinking_ , Vitya? You have Russian nationals in two weeks! Thank God I got here in time!"

Christophe raised his hands, stepped away from Victor. "OK, sure. I'm just going to... leave you two to discuss this. Victor, look... I'll see you at Euros, all right? Text me."

He swiped at his groin with a towel, quickly pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt, grabbed his bag, and left the locker room. As he went, Yakov thought he heard him muttering _crazy Russians_.

Victor crossed his arms. Goosepimples were stippling his skin. "Yakov, that was the most embarrassing moment of my life."

"Not only yours!" Yakov marched over to the showers and turned the cold tap to full. "You brought this on yourself, Vitya. Go on, get in."

"But Yakov, I'm not... there's no need... I couldn't come now if you held a gun to my head."

It was gratifyingly true. Yakov had seen men looking more aroused after a winter swim in the Neva at -10C.

"Do you think I care?" he said. "Get in the shower."

Victor got in the shower.

"Ten minutes ought to do it," said Yakov, looking at his watch. "An extra minute for every time I hear you complain. See if you forget my rules again."


	2. Georgi

**Theory**

After the Vitya debacle of the previous year, Yakov had been dreading this talk. But Gosha began by surprising him with his reasonableness.

"I understand," he said solemnly. "I have to save myself for skating. I have to love it more than anything else in the world. This is my way of showing that."

It wasn't quite how he would have put it himself, but it wasn't bad. Perhaps he would have to remember it for next time. "Yes. That's right."

"It'll be like being a monk," said Gosha, fingering the small silver cross that hung around his neck. "Fasting and prostrations, that's what you're meant to do when you're tempted by sin."

Yakov's heart sank. Naturally Gosha would try to bring religion into it. This devout phase of his was tiresome, and it had gone on for too long. Whatever one might say about the Soviet Union – and Yakov had said many things about the Soviet Union, all safely behind closed doors – it had at least displayed little patience for religious sentimentality.

"No fasting," he said firmly. "You'll follow your meal plan. We discussed this already. You're a real athlete now, you're sixteen, you're competing internationally. Surely there's some exception for athletes."

But what did he know about Orthodoxy? It was not the Christian God in whom he – and his parents and grandparents before him – refused to believe.

"I don't know..."

"Well, ask your priest. I don't do priests."

Gosha gave him a sulky look.

"But I do know he'll tell you the same thing about sex," Yakov added. "The exact same thing."

It was dirty tricks, leaguing himself with Gosha's priest, whoever and wherever he might be. But that didn't matter, because it was going to work. 

***

**Practice**

_Ten years later_

It might have been competition season, but there was no ban on romance.

It was a late September evening, the nights sharply closing in. Georgi had made reservations at a new, expensive Italian place that Victor – he would never admit it to Anya – had recommended. He bought her flowers. Afterwards they walked back to his place, looking at the moon reflected in the canals.

At home, he lit candles instead of turning on the lights. He sat down with Anya, put his arm around her shoulders, and he held her close.

Some minutes later, he reached down to shift her hand, which had crept down from his chest to the zip of his trousers.

"Let's not," he said.

"Let's," said Anya.

For a moment they were locked in a standoff, Anya's hand clasped in his. Their arms were tensed as if they had been ice dancing. Transition to death spiral. Anya pulled her hand away.

"Zhora, it's been three months. I know you wanted it to be special and wait till we knew how we felt about each other, but it's getting a bit ridiculous!"

"It's not that," said Georgi, shifting uncomfortably. "I mean, yes, I wanted it to be special. It would be special, Anya, I've never loved anyone as much as you. But there are other things to think about now. We're both competing in the Grand Prix next month, so..."

Her eyes widened, catching reflections of candlelight. "Tell me this isn't about Yakov's stupid sex ban!"

He blinked, caught by surprise, and said nothing. He felt like a moth.

Anya laughed. "It is! Yakov's sex ban! You don't think anyone actually pays attention to that, do you? I know for a fact that Mila doesn't."

" _I_ do."

"And Victor Nikiforov, five times Grand Prix winner and all the rest of it, I can't even keep track of who the man's dating, you think he's keeping it in his pants for half the year?"

"I take my skating seriously," said Georgi, who tried not to think about Victor's sex life.

"You take everything too seriously, Zhora. Are you actually planning to wait until after _Worlds_?"

"I have a real chance to win gold this year. With you beside me, Anya, with your support, I think I can do it. For you. For us."

"Not if I have to wait until April," she said, despairing. "Look, Zhora, if you want to lock yourself in some medieval chastity belt, that's your business. But I have needs. Can't you just go down on me? After all, you can do that without coming, can't you?"

Could he? Georgi pondered. Being an athlete was all about knowing your physical limits. 

"I don't think I can," he said.

"You can't be fucking serious."

"You're too beautiful. I love you too much. You drive me wild, Anya, you don't know what you do to me, how hard it is..."

 _How hard it is right now,_ he thought mournfully. But he never would have said anything so vulgar to his beloved.

"I do know," said Anya. "That's why I'm going to find a boyfriend who will actually fuck me. Or a girlfriend, for that matter. I'm not picky. Goodbye, Georgi. It's over."


	3. Yuri Plisetsky

**Theory**

"Ugh," said Yuri. "Fine, whatever, I won't. Can we stop talking about this now?"

"I just want to make certain that you understand," said Yakov.

"Of course I understand. You don't want me to end up like Victor."

Which was a paradox if he had ever heard one. But he knew what Yuri meant.

"And you're willing..."

Yuri cut him off. "I told Lilia I would give my body to win. I meant it."

***

**Practice**

_Two months later_

Living with Yuri, while hardly good for his blood pressure, had certain advantages when it came to the ease of supervision. 

Nonetheless Yakov's positive knowledge ended with a closed door. On his rest day, Yuri was allowed to lie in bed till noon if he chose (it gave Yakov and Lilia a chance to read the papers in peace). And if Yakov shouted at him in the shower, it was only to complain about his profligate use of hot water or to give him important information, such as the fact that the Grand Prix assignments had just been released.

There was no need to invade Yuri's privacy. He was confident that Yuri was following his rules. Because he had, in fact, created a monster.

Yuri was constantly on edge, furiously angry, snarling and gagging at any suggestion of romantic happiness around him, wound up into a tight ball of frustration, practically glowing with _want_.

Yes. This was exactly what was meant to happen. Yakov's method had finally, after all these years, reached the pinnacle of its effectiveness. All of this energy, all of this desire, with nowhere to go other than Yuri's skating. And it seemed to be working.

Having Yuri around the house in such a state was certainly not helping Yakov's tentative efforts to romance Lilia. The most deniable brush of fingertips while they were making dinner resulted in an explosion of stomping feet and slamming doors that entirely ruined the mood.

For now, however, this was a price worth paying. For now.


	4. Yuuri Katsuki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is in no way my definitive version of 'how Yuuri and Victor got together at the Cup of China.' It's just... this version. Which obviously has its own narrative focus.

_It's now or never,_ Yuuri told himself firmly. _If not now, then when? You can do this. You can._

Dinner at the hot pot restaurant had finally pushed him over the edge. There was nothing like having Victor stark naked and dry humping you in public to concentrate the mind. That night, after dragging a very drunk Victor back to the hotel and firmly, chastely, tucking him into bed, he had found himself totally unable to sleep.

Now it was the eve of the competition and Victor, entirely sober, was standing with his hands on his hips in Yuuri's hotel room, going on about the fine points of Eros and exactly how passionately Yuuri ought to seduce him on the ice.

It was, thought Yuuri, time to clear the air. Well past time. 

He held his breath, threw his arms around Victor, and kissed him. Victor gasped – and then he returned the kiss, redoubled in intensity.

All conscious thought departed from Yuuri's mind, replaced with instinct and desire and long-frustrated need. He pressed himself against Victor, hungering to be closer, closer. His hips found their own rhythm, the long-delayed counterpoint to Victor's drunken embrace at the restaurant.

"No!" shouted Victor, pulling away from Yuuri as if he had been burned. "What are you thinking, Yuuri? Absolutely not!"

Yuuri's world came crashing down around his ears. His face flushed, a buzzing in his ears. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Victor, please forgive me! I can't believe I did that. But I thought... I thought you wanted...." 

He couldn't get the words out, it sounded so pathetic and ridiculous and unlikely. _I thought you wanted me..._

"Please don't resign as my coach! Please, just forget I..."

"Your sense of timing is extraordinary, Yuuri!" exclaimed Victor, pacing back and forth with long, impatient strides. "Months I've been hoping for this. Months. And you decide to seduce me _now_ , the night before your short program? You know that, as your coach, I can't possibly allow it."

 _Months I've been hoping._ His brain couldn't process the idea. Instead it followed stupidly along the train of Victor's logic, seized upon the final thing that Victor had said.

"What do you mean, you can't allow it?" he repeated, blinking away unshed tears. His tongue felt thick inside his mouth.

"What sort of coach would I be, if I had sex with you the night before a major competition? Everything Yakov said about me would be true!"

"But you – " He started to say _but you were naked at the restaurant last night and trying to make love to my hip_ , then thought better of it. "But you wanted me to develop my Eros. I thought, maybe..."

"You're meant to use it to fuel your skating, not to waste it on sex," said Victor as if it was obvious, which it most certainly was not. "Don't you remember what I told you? _No sex during the season, not even with your hand,_ I said."

"No you didn't," said Yuuri, wondering why he was allowing the conversation to be sidetracked like this. Except that now he was angry. "You never talked to me about it."

Victor frowned. "Didn't I? I certainly meant to. I made a list of Important Coaching Conversations To Have. And that's one of the most important ones. Yakov gave me the talk when I was sixteen."

_Oh God, if he only knew how much time I've spent jerking off in my room since he arrived. While looking at my posters of him. I'm dead, slain by my own hand..._

"I would remember if you'd told me that," Yuuri insisted. "Did you really not ever, when you were competing....?"

"No! Well, I tried not to. Maybe I didn't take it quite as seriously as Yakov did. But I never had sex in the two weeks before a competition." Victor thought for a moment. "The week before a competition. Anyway, absolutely definitely never the night before a competition."

"If you say so," said Yuuri, nonplussed.

"Well, this gives us something to improve on," continued Victor cheerfully. "Maybe it explains why you've been so inconsistent! From now on..."

It was getting ridiculous. Wasn't there something more important that had been lost in all this talk of skating? Victor's words were still echoing in his brain. _Months I've been hoping. Months._

"Victor," interrupted Yuuri. "Stop being my coach. Just for a minute. Please. You... you said... when I kissed you..."

Victor stopped dead. He grasped both of Yuuri's hands, gave him a searching look. "Yuuri, didn't you know?"

"Know...?"

"That I adore you. I've been in love with you for months. Surely you must have realised."

After a statement like that, there was nothing Yuuri could do but kiss him again. For a long while they held one another, Victor stroking Yuuri's hair, embracing as chastely as they could. Yuuri felt giddy. In Japanese he whispered words of love, an entwining duet with Victor's murmured Russian.

Inevitably things started to become more heated – until Victor, for the second time that night, took a step back.

"And Yakov," he said mournfully, "says that I have no self control."

They stood holding hands, gazing at one another.

"But once this is over," said Yuuri.

Victor looked him up and down, slowly, like a starving man contemplating a bowl of katsudon. He swallowed hard, his adam's apple visibly dipping in his pale throat. 

"I want to do nothing else," he replied, a husky, longing promise.

***

It was Yuuri's second sleepless night in a row. Next morning he studied himself in the mirror – eyelids sagging, dark circles under his eyes – and wondered how on earth he was going to compete in such a state.

 _This is the last time I listen to Victor's words of coaching wisdom,_ he promised himself. _The sex ban ends tonight._


	5. Yakov

"No," said Lilia. "Absolutely not. Last time I let you come, it took a day before you could get it up again."

Yakov groaned and let his head fall back against the pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Nineveh_uk for help and encouragement brainstorming this one. In particular, the Georgi/Anya scenario was mostly her idea.
> 
> (Or possibly this came from FFA? My memory for inspiration is failing me. Apologies, meme.)


End file.
